LIBRAPY  ^ 

UN IV          TY    OF 

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SANTA  CRUZ 


SANTA     CRUZ 


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Presented  in  memory  of  A 
Craven  L.  Betts 


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SANTA     CRUZ 


An  Inn  For 


Journeyin 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright,  191*,  by  William  J.  Roe 


All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


PS 


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In   loving  memory  of  my  wife 
MARY  STUART  NORTON  ROE 

whose  never  failing  appreciation  of 
my  work  was  always  an  inspiration 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

PAGE 

A  Poet    ...    ii 

Fairy  Thought    12 

Valor    14 

The  Winter  Sea   15 

The   Unbeliever    16 

Woman    17 

Alpenglow    18 

Night    19 

The  Moon  was  Low  20 

Fairy  Tales 21 

White  Truth 22 

The  Lost  Sword  23 

Theiss  of  the  Monterey 26 

Five  Years   28 

The    Islander    29 

Song  of  the  Machine 30 

5 


CONTENTS 

PART  II — DEVOTIONAL 

PAGE 

The   Christ    35 

Anthem — No  King  but  God 36 

''They  Have  Taken  Away  the  Lord" 37 

The  Day  of  Judgment 38 

The  Black  Wolf's  Key 39 

The   Continuing   City    41 

In  His  Princely  Place 43 

City  of  the  Stranger's  Gate 45 

The  Usurper's  Assassin    46 

Immortality    49 

Progress    50 

PART  III — MYSTIC,  METAPHYSICAL  AND  INTEL- 
LECTUAL. 

Left  With   the  Flowers 53 

The  Cavern  of  the  Enchanted  Truths 55 

My  Soul   57 

Out  of  the  Great  Tribulation 58 

The  Seal   59 

The   Argonaut    60 

6 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Asteroid    61 

The  Natural  Body  63 

In  the  Garden  of  God   64 

Alcyone    65 

Sleep    66 

Evolution    67 

The  Babes  of  Themis 68 

Polaris    69 

PART   IV — HUMOROUS 

Sprinkled    Rhymes    73 

A  September  Idyl 74 

Puzzled 75 

Character    76 

Ambition 77 

Signs  and  Wonders   78 

Burglar  Alarms   81 

The  Same  Old  Choice 84 

Co-operation    85 

How  Man  Came  to  be  Lord  of  Creation 86 

7 


CONTENTS 
PART  V — JUVENILE 

PAGE 

Nan's  White  World    89 

Clematis    91 

Bumble  Words   93 

The  Land  of  Upside  Down 95 

Little  Columbus   96 

"To  Make  You  Wise" 97 

The  Critics   98 

Recognition    100 


INN   FOR  JOURNEYING  THOUGHTS 


A  POET 

A  poet,  like  a  child  astray, 
Hears  a  voice  calling  far  away, 
With  something  friendly  in  the  tone 
He  does  not  wish — nor  dare — disown. 

What  voice  it  is  he  does  not  know ; — 
Enough,  'tis  happiness  to  go  ; 
Yet  troubled  lest  his  gladsome  cry 
Be  to  the  voice  no  fit  reply. 


u 


FAIRY  THOUGHT 

One  morn  a  fairy  came  to  my  door, 
One  I  had  never  beheld  before. 
Sweet  she  was  as  all  fairies  are, 
Bright  her  looks  as  the  morning  star, 
Robed  in  a  beautiful  spirit  dress, 
Woven  from  heaven's  loveliness. 

"Tarry  with  me,  dear  Thought,"  I  cried, 
"Come  now  to  my  heart  and  be  my  bride." 
"I  come  from  the  wonderful  overhead. 
"Are  you  the  poet  I  seek?"  she  said, 
Oh!  love  would  never  be  love  unless 
All  else  forgetting.     I  answered,  "Yes." 

Then  in  a  moment  around  her  slipt 
A  dainty  garment  of  manuscript. 
I  know  my  wooing  was  coarse  and  crude, 
My  words  of  welcome  abrupt  and  rude. 
She  struggled  a  moment  in  sad  surprise, 
With  quivering  lips  and  tearful  eyes. 

"Why  do  you  weep,  dear  Thought,"  I  said, 
"Do  you  long  for  the  home  you  left  o'erhead  ? 
I  love  you,  darling."  She  answered,  "No, 
If  you  loved  me  better  you'd  let  me  go. 
I  am  immortal,  nought  else  endures; 
But  I  seek  a  poet,  I  can't  be  yours." 

I  knew  the  truth  of  the  words  she  said ; 
'Twas  only  a  poet  Thought  could  wed. 
So  in  a  moment  the  fairy  slipt 
Out  of  my  garment  of  manuscript, 
And  flitted  away.     I  clasped  instead 
This  vesture  of  words;  my  Thought  had  fled. 
12 


Only  a  rhymer — and  yet  I  keep 

An  inn  where  journeying  thoughts  may  sleep, 

To  tarry  awhile,  and  then  away, 

With  only  longings  and  dreams  for  pay, — 

A  wayside  inn  on  the  crowded  road 

From  living  atom  to  living  God ! 


I.* 


VALOR 

They  said,   How  brave  he  was;- 
Holding  for  death  such  scorn, 
Leading  the  hope  forlorn; 
But  'twas  not  bravery; 

He  could  not  fear  because 
To  live  was  slavery. 

See,  How  he  shrinks  from  strife! 

Was  e'er  such  craven  born? 

For  in  the  hope  forlorn 

They  marked  his  palor. 
Loving,  he  gave  his  life; — 

Ah,  that  was  valor. 


THE  WINTER  SEA 

From  horizon  to  horizon 

The  mounted  waves  ride  madly  on. 

Their  burnished  armor  gleams  afar; 

They  leap  across  the  outer  bar, 

And  o'er  the  shallow's  level  plain 

In  one  long  furious  gallop  strain. 

Up  the  glacis  the  dark  blue  ranks, 

With  plumed  helms  and  foam-flecked  flanks, 

In  one  wild  onset  plunge  and  leap 

The  lusty  chargers  of  the  deep. 

But  knight  and  steed  go  down  before 
The  stubborn  lines  that  hold  the  shore. 
They  rally  even  as  they  fall, 
At  the  wind's  whistling  bugle  call. 
Again  they  charge.     Oh!  never  yet 
Were  words  to  such  wild  music  set. 
With  flaunting  guidons  of  the  foam, 
And  white-capped  sabres  on  they  come, 
Fearless,  and  dealing  blow  for  blow — 
All  the  long  winter  charging  so. 


THE  UNBELIEVER 

From  all  the  dreams  behind  me, 
And  all  the  fears  before, 

From  dreams  of  light  that  blind  me 
The  darkness  shall  restore. 

From  sullen  sound  or  silence, 

From  cruel  calm  or  vi'lence, 

I'll  seek  the  sable  islands 

Where  thought  shall  vex  no  more. 

Free  from  the  glint  or  glowing, 

To  fret  or  fear  no  more; 
Before  the  death-blast  blowing 

I'll  seek  the  sable  shore. 
Beyond  the  murk  and  splendor, 
The  pageants  cold  or  tender, 
The  wan  white  flags  surrender, 

And  thought  shall  vex  no  more. 


16 


WOMAN 

What  should  a  woman  be? 
At  the  first  all  leal  and  true 
When  the  song  of  love  sing  two. 
What  should  a  woman  be 
When  her  love  is  pledged  to  thee? 
All  purity. 

What  should  a  woman  be 

When  the  two  to  one  have  grown, 
When  each  heart  has  found  its  own  ? 
What  should  a  woman  be 
When  her  life  is  linked  to  thee? 
Sincerity. 

What  should  a  woman  be? 

(Still  more  love  the  angels  bring; 

Still  the  song  of  love  they  sing.) 
What  should  a  woman  be 
When  the  song  of  love  sing  three? 
Maternity. 

So  should  a  woman  be; 
And  whatever  may  befall 
Let  the  song  of  love  sing  all; 

So  should  a  woman  be, 

So,  love,  am  I  to  thee — 
Fidelity. 


ALPENGLOW 

A  youth  stood  looking  across  the  lake — 
Across  the  lake  and  the  sun  went  down. 

He  tarried  awhile  for  the  beauty's  sake; 
But  sighed  as  he  turned  again  to  the  town. 

The  peaks  were  high  and  the  sun  was  low, 
And  over  the  summits  he  saw  the  glow. 

All  the  valley  in  night  was  wrapped, 

But  the  icy  mountains  were  clad  in  pink. 

Thoughts  of  the  valley  asunder  snapped; 

He  thought    the    thoughts    that    the    mountains 
think. 

Cared  he  not  when  he  saw  the  glow 

That  the  peaks  were  high  and  the  sun  was  low. 

Toiling  up  on  the  mountain  side 

He  whispered:  Out  of  the  world  I  tread. 

Wider  the  world  became,  more  wide 
Became  the  wonderful  overhead. 

But  the  sun  sank  down,  and  the  alpenglow 
Was  no  longer  there  in  the  cruel  snow. 


18 


NIGHT 

Night  is  a  sea  whose  shores 

Are  always  day; 
Life  is  a  barque  whose  prow 

Points  but  one  way. 
Upon  that  silent  sea 

Each  night  we  set 
Our  sails,  and  leave  the  helm 

And  then  forget. 

No  beacons  light  the  shores; 

We  show  no  light. 
An  unseen  helmsman  guides 

Our  barque  aright. 
So,  on  the  shore  of  time, 

'Tis  always  day; 
Life  is  a  barque  whose  prow 

Points  but  one  way. 


THE  MOON  WAS  LOW 

The  moon  was  low  and  the  night  was  late 
As  we  said  good-by  at  the  garden  gate. 

Across  the  fields  to  the  silver  gloom 

The  camp  gleamed  white  like  a  marble  tomb. 

He  whispered  softly:  "At  break  of  day 
I  march  with  the  soldiers  far  away. 

Will  you  give  me  a  kiss  before  I  go? — 
Just  one  kiss,  Mollie,  you  can't  say  no." 

He  looked  so  brave  in  his  shoulder-straps; 
Perhaps  it  was  wrong, — and  yet, — perhaps, — 

When  he  asked  for  a  kiss  what  could  I  say? 
'Twere  heartless  to  tell  him  to  ride  away. 

Not  a  word  of  love  had  he  said  till  then ; 
My  mother  had  taught  me  to  shun  the  men — 

A  boy  like  this  did  my  mother  mean? — 
He  was  only  twenty,  and  I  sixteen. 

I  lifted  my  lips,  and  he  bent  his  own — 
A  kiss — and  I  stood  by  the  gate  alone. 

He  leaped  to  the  saddle;  he  touched  the  rein 
"Oh!  keep  my  kiss  till  I  come  again." 

He  rode  away  in  the  silver  gloom 

To  the  camp  as  white  as  a  marble  tomb. 

The  news  came  home  from  the  cruel  South, 
And  the  kiss  is  like  death  upon  my  mouth. 

20 


FAIRY  TALES 

Outside  the  furies  of  the  winter  battled — the  sleet 

and  the  rain; 
The  chilled  projectiles  of  the  storm-fiend  rattled  on 

the  window  pane. 
In  the  dim  dusk  upon  my  heart  reclining,  my  little 

boy  lay  there, 
The  glowing  brands  upon  his  sweet  face  shining,  on 

his  pretty  hair. 

I   told  of  happiness, — the  joy  of  duty  that  never 

fails, 
And  then  of  Santa  Glaus  and  the  beast  and  beauty, 

— those  fairy  tales. 
That  night   a  stranger  entered   uninvited,   to   kill 

my  joy; 
Death,  the  destroyer,  all  my  heart  hopes  blighted, 

he  took  my  boy. 


The  years  have  gone — near  thirty  chill  Decembers 

— and  another  son 
Sits  with  me  in  the  dusk  by  glowing  embers, — my 

only  one. 
His  voice  is  thick,  and  the  noisome  breath  of  liquor 

makes  foul  the  air; 
On  bloodshot  eyes  the  fitful   fire-gleams   flicker — 

on  his  tangled  hair. 

Over  a  little  grave  winds  wail  out  yonder,   and 

the  snowdrifts  toss. 
Which  is  the  living  one,  my  heart  throbs  ponder, 

which  the  greater  loss? 
Ah,  life  and  death, — both  God's  enduring  giving, 

can  never  fail; 

Death  is  reality,  and  this  cruel  living  the  fairy  tale. 
21 


WHITE  TRUTH 

A  child  who   dwelt  'neath   clouded  skies, 
Where  the  dull  year  it  always  rained, 

Saw  the  sun  glow  with  sad  surprise, 

And  cried  that  all  the  land  was  stained. 

So  like  poor  children  in  the  rain, 
Beholding  truth  too  bright  to  know, 

We  cry: — Alas!  a  stain — a  stain! 
When  glimpses  of  God's  glory  glow. 


22 


THE  LOST  SWORD 

(Read  before  the  Society  of  the  Sons  of  the  Revo 

lution,   on   the   anniversary   of   the   Battle   of 

Bunker  Hill,  June  17,  1775. 

Sons  of  the  men  whose  life-drops  still 
Quicken  the  soil  of  Bunker  Hill; 
Sons  of  the  men  who  dared  to  bleed 
For  Philadelphia's  Runnymede, 
Hear  how  the  dying  patriot's  sword, 
Lost  on  the  field,  has  been  restored. 

Year  after  year  the  ploughshare  rolled 
Over  the  sword  a  surf  of  mold, 
And  dashed  from  prow  of  reaping  fleet 
The  summer  corn,  the  winter  wheat. 

The  autumn  rain,  the  winter  frost 
Delved  at  the  sword  the  soldier  lost, 
And  in  the  depths  of  earth  profound 
Wrought  the  blind  spinners  of  the  ground; 
Till — when  the  distaff's  work  was  done, — 
All  the  bright  threads  of  steel  were  spun, — 
The  chemic  weavers  took  the  rust, 
Wove  it  amid  the  feebler  dust, 
And  mingled  on  the  battle  plain 
The  lost  sword  with  the  harvest  grain. 

'Twas  this, — the  iron  in  the  bread — 
On  which  our  heroes  since  have  fed; 
That  cried  on  dying  Lawrence's  lip: — 
"Don't,  comrades,  don't  give  up  the  ship!" 
That  set  the  Constitution's  sails; 
Built  the  quick  scarp  of  cotton  bales; 
That  marched,  with  steadfast  step  and  slow, 
23 


The  weary  leagues  to  Mexico, 
And  nerving  all  the  blood,  with  Dade 
Dyed  the  Floridian  everglade: — 
The  force  and  fire  a  man  should  feel, 
Tingling  his  blood — his  father's  steel! 

I  hold — as  did  the  ancients  hold — 
That  civic  strife  were  best  untold. 
But  hear  the  cannons'  music  roar, 
Chanting  the  ritual  of  war, 
When  unto  Ares'  altar  went 
The  states  for  Union's  sacrament, 
When  sang  th'  epithalamium  through 
A  million  acolytes  in  blue. 

Sons  of  the  men  whose  life-drops  still 
Quicken  the  soil  of  Bunker's  Hill, 
Go  to  his  tomb  who  gave  the  bride; — 
He  sleeps  on  sacred  Riverside; 
And — as  the  lily  on  her  heart 
Writes  the  great  name  of  Bonaparte, 
And  clasp  in  mutual  repose 
The  flower  of  York — Lancaster's  rose, — 
In  a  far  nobler  victory  spare 
Some  of  the  laurel  bourgeoning  there, 
And  lay  it  where  the  palmetto  weeps 
On  graves  where  Southern  valor  sleeps. 

Sons  of  the  men  who  dared  to  bleed 
For  Philadelphia's  Runnymede, 
By  empire's  starlight,  moving  West, 
Decipher  now  her  palimpsest. 
Behold  the  wrecks  of  time's  cyclone, — 
The  ruined  realms  the  wayside  strewn. 
Learn  how  the  ages  past  have  fared 
Lest  danger  find  us  unprepared. 
24 


Lest  some  bold  power  move  too  far 
Towards  our  West  his  empire's  star; 
Lest  we  should  find  a  treacherous  guest,- 
A  viper  in  the  eagle's  nest, — 
Hissing  with  putrifying  breath 
Some  slimy,  sinuous  shibboleth; 
Lest  from  a  swamp  of  lawless  law 
Should  crawl  a  peril  none  foresaw, 
Learn  of  the  past;  they  are  not  blind 
Who  face  the  dark  with  light  behind. 

Sons  of  the  men  whose  life  blood  still 
Quickens  the  soil  of  Bunker's  Hill — 
Why, — of  our  number  gathered  here 
We'll  find  another  Paul  Revere, 
Before  the  armed  wrong  to  ride, 
Crying: — "The  sword  is  justified!" 
"To  bid  the  long-roll  beat  again; 
"To  rouse  Columbia's  Minute-Men." 

When  the  best  logic  is  to  feel, 
And  subtlest  reasoner — the  steel, 
The  Sons  shall  hear  that  mid-night  cry, 
And  for  the  right  new  Warrens  die. 


THEISS  OF  THE  MONTEREY 

When  the  battle  bugles  play, 
And  the  battle-flags  are  flying, 

Mid  mad  music  of  the  fray, 

'Tis  not  hard  for  soldiers — dying. 

But  when  none  is  there  to  tell 
Who  would  crave  to  dare  or  die? 

Who  would  face  the  fires  of  hell — 
Asking  not — nor  caring — why? 

It  was  but  the  other  day 

One  there  was  who  knew  not  fear, 
On  the  war-ship,  "Monterey," 

Theiss,  the  gallant  engineer. 

His  the  best  and  bravest  daring; 

When  the  war-ship's  boiler  burst, 
Not  for  gain  or  glory  caring, 

He  was  in  the  death-cloud  first. 

With  the  bravest  volunteer 
Who  has  gone  his  hero's  way, 

Rank  him — Theiss,  the  engineer 
Of  the  war-ship,  "Monterey." 

With  his  comrades  of  the  crew, 
Strong  of  heart  and  firm  of  lip, 

While  the  death  blast  round  them  blew, 
There  they  stayed  to  save  the  ship. 

Of  such  stuff  are  heroes  made; 

With  a  will  they  worked  away ; 
Life  was  duty,  death  their  trade; 

But  they  saved  the  "Monterey." 
26 


Nail  our  banner  to  the  mast; 

Of  such  spirits  brave  and  bold, 
He  was  neither  first  nor  last; — 

We've  the  metal  and  the  mold ! 


27 


FIVE  YEARS 

Arbitration — January  nth,  1897 

Once   more   the  skies  o'erarching  have   thundered 

hope  to  man, 
And  the  murky  clouds  and  solemn  have  broken 

for  the  light; 

Once  more  the  ages  marching  to  the  mighty  Cap- 
tain's plan 

Have  wheeled  in  serried  column  to  the  morning 
and  the  right. 

Once   more   the  sullen   Furies  to  a  new   emotion 

thrill; 
Discomfited  Abaddon  crawls    backward    to    his 

den; 
Loud  the  seraph's  diapason,  It  is  thus  the  laws  ful- 

fii, 

While  the  hosts  of  glory  gladden  at  the  scratch- 
ing of  a  pen. 

The  harpy  and  the  condor  from  their  cruel  heights 

repine, 
And  the  jungle  tigers  tremble  for  the  fate  that 

they  foresee, 
And  wolf-men  pause  and  ponder  the  march  of  the 

divine 

When  Love  need  not  dissemble  and  Hate  shall 
hate  to  be. 

A  flapping  of  the  pinions  that  raise  our  fallen  race, 
A  step  of  Truth  advancing  in  the  great  and  glad 

campaign, — 

Hide  now,  O  Hell,  your  minions  in  terror  and  dis- 
grace ; 

Five  years  exult  entrancing  for  the  thousand  that 
remain. 

28 


THE  ISLANDER 

Upon  this  island  star  of  space 

I  hear  the  thundrous  billows  break; 

Strange  scenes  arise  before  my  face; 
I  start  and  stare — alive,  awake. 

Far  seaward  glints  a  parting  sail; — 

'Twas  mine,  'twas  mine,  but  how  and  when 

I  cannot  tell,  for  memories  fail 
Of  spirit  things  in  lands  of  men. 

Was  I  the  captain  of  the  barque 

Whose  crew  rebelled  and  left  me  here? 

O  silence,  answer;  tell,  O  Dark, 
Was  I  myself  the  mutineer?" 


SONG  OF  THE  MACHINE 

In  the  ancient  days  when  neighbor 
Slew  his  neighbor  for  his  lord, 
When  the  sullen  slaves  of  labor 

Toiled  to  glut  their  master's  hoard, 
In  the  midst  of  desolation,  called  by  tyrants  sweet 
accord. 

Suddenly  appeared  a  giant, 
In  full  armor  all  arrayed, 
On  his  lip  a  song  defiant, 

In  his  hand  a  battle  blade, 

And  he  blew  a  blast  of  terror,  making  all  the  land 
afraid. 

I  am  come,  it  rang,  unwilling 

Though  the  slaves  I  serve  may  be, 
I  am  come,  the  laws  fulfilling, 

And  I  bid  you  yield  to  me, — 
I,  the  great  Jehovah's  envoy,  I  am  come  to  set  you 
free. 

Slowly  then  the  monster  stalking 

With  a  deft  and  deathly  tread, — 
As  the  kestral  swoops  when  hawking, — 

Where  their  humble  board  was  spread, 
Fearless  of  a  mortal's  balking,  laid  his  hand  upon 
their  bread. 

Up  each  man  springs,  bold  and  eager, 

To  resist  with  tumult  rude; 
Should  a  stranger  take  his  meagre 

Portion  of  the  toiler's  food? 
In  the  midst  of  desolation  should  a  giant's  strength 
intrude  ? 

30 


While  the  women  wept,  bewailing, 
With  their  long,  disheveled  hair, 
While  their  tender  hearts  were  failing, 

Pouring  out  unanswered  prayer, 
Grieving  for  the  little  children  that  their  nature 
bade  them  bear. 

Vain  the  struggle  and  defiance, 

And  the  weeping  women's  gloom; 
Not  for  nought  God  sends  his  giants 

To  uplift  his  people's  doom, 

Tho   the   frenzied  mob  of   Lyons  havoc  wrought 
with  Jacquard's  loom. 

Tho  the  rider  drive  his  rowel 
Into  fierce  Apollyon's  flanks, 
And  the  lustful  loom  of  Lowell 
Decimates  our  maiden's  ranks, 
For   the  power  of   the  giant   to   Jehovah   be   our 
thanks. 

When  the  fallacies  that  wrangle 
Overcome  themselves  and  die, 
Truths  shall  rise  like  stars  to  spangle 

All  the  blue-black,  arching  sky, 
And  the  "thus"  of  Progress  answers  slowly  all  who 
question  why? 

So  the  giant's  potent  glances 

To  the  nations  point  the  ways, 
And  to-morrow's  light  advances 
With  the  waning  of  to-day's, 

Till  the  world   grows  glad   and   gladder  for  the 
might  of  yesterday's. 


Till  the  toil  of  labor  dwindles, 

And  the  giant's  work  is  done, — 
All  the  reapers  and  the  spindles 

By  his  mailed  hand  are  run, 

Till  a  child  shall  touch  a  button  for  the  throttle  of 
the  sun. 


PART  II 
DEVOTIONAL 


THE  CHRIST 

When  a  pure  and  virgin  mind, 

Free  of  rancor  and  of  guilt, 
Feels  its  puny  self  resigned, 

Saying  calmly,  As  thou  wilt; 
In  some  fitting  place  and  clime, 

In  some  great,  immortal  hour, 
In  the  fullness  of  all  time, 

By  o'ershadowing  of  Power — 

Then — immaculate  and  true, — 
Christ  has  been  conceived  for  you. 

When  the  gift  surpassing  all, — 

Man  or  woman,  wife  or  maid, — 
On  the  throne  or  in  the  stall, 

Has  been  reverently  laid; 
When  the  hidden  things  grow  plain, 

To  thy  majesty  restored; 
When  the  Magi  of  the  brain 

Bow  before  their  conscious  lord; 

Then  indeed,  Oh!  then,  for  you 
Has  been  born  the  Christ — the  true. 

These  are  they  who  cannot  fail 

On  their  journey  towards  the  light — 
They  who  gather  in  the  vale 

Strength  to  climb  the  mountain  height; 
Patient  age  or  earnest  youth; — 

Ye  who  live  to  serve  the  true; 
Who  would  gladly  die  for  truth, 

Know  the  Truth  has  died  for  you, 

Then  indeed  the  Christ — the  True — 
Has  been  crucified  for  you. 
35 


ANTHEM 
NO  KING  BUT  GOD 

(Set  to  music  by  Harry  Rowe  Shelly,  and  sung  by 

the  Chorus  at  the  Centenary  of  the  close  of 

the  Revolution,  Newburgh,  N.  Y.,  Oct. 

18,  1883.) 

Once  on  this  holy  hill 
Rang  out  with  mighty  will 
A  voice  now  cold  and  still 

Under  the  sod. 
Here  where  to-day  we  stand 
Our  gallant   fathers'  band 
Proclaimed  to  all  the  land: — 

A^o  King  but  God! 

Send  forth  that  shout  once  more 
That  echoed  here  of  yore, 
Till  every  distant  shore 

That  e'er  was  trod 
Shall  hear  that  olden  cry, 
No  tyrant  shall  come  nigh; 
We  will  be  free,  or  die — 

No  King  but  God! 

Where  Washington  dashed  down, 
With   an   indignant   frown, 
Of  old  the  royal  crown 

And  tyrant's  rod. 
Here  where  we  stand  to-day, 
The  young,  the  strong,  the  gray, 
We  all  arise  and  say: — 

No  King  but  God! 

36 


"THEY  HAVE  TAKEN  AWAY  THE  LORD" 

They  came  in  the  early  morn, 

The  tender  sisters,  to  find  him; 
They  found  but  the  linen  clothes 

That  he  left  in  the  tomb  behind  him. 
And  one,  seeing  only  the  garb 

In  which  she  had  loving  arrayed  him, 
Cried,  ''They  have  taken  the  Lord, 

"And  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  him." 

I  go  to  the  parish  church, 

And  my  arms  and  my  heart  are  reaching 
Forth  for  the  crucified  Christ, 

And  I  long  for  the  good  old  preaching. 
But  I  seek  in  vain  for  the  flock 

Who  of  old  would  have  loved  and  obeyed  him; 
"They  have  taken  away  my  Lord, 

And  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  him." 

They  hail  him  King  of  the  Jews, 

Or  they  mock  and  deny  and  deride  him. 
Alas!  there  is  none  upon  earth 

That  I  should  desire  beside  him. 
They  have  taken  him  out  of  the  heart, 

And  in  gorgeous  purple  displayed  him  ; 
"They  have  taken  away  my  Lord, 

And  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  him." 

They  cry  in  the  street  from  the  dawn 

To  the  dark,  "He  is  here;  we  have  found  him." 
I  ask  for  the  risen  Christ, 

But  they  show  me  the  linen  that  bound  him. 
The  infidel  press  and  the  men 

Who  of  old  would   have  scourged  or  betrayed 

him 
"They  have  taken  away  my  Lord, 

And  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  him," 
37 


THE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT 

Now  Azrael's  trumpet  is  sounding 
The  judgments  of  Fate  to  decide, 

And  Power  from  coffers  abounding 
The  doom  of  the  dead  shall  provide. 

Three  thrones  in  that  hideous  hour 

Frown  over  a  terrified  host, 
Three  spirits  of  infinite  power — 

The  God  and  the  Christ  and  the  Ghost. 

Here  none  can  deny  or  dissemble, 

And  none  can  avert  or  evade, 
And  even  the  holiest  tremble 

In  fear  of  the  law  disobeyed. 

The  few  who  are  called  unto  glory 
Are  mocking  the  millions  of  shame, 

And  boasting  because  of  the  story 
That  saved  by  the  mystical  name. 

Though   safe   from   the   doom   of   immortals 

Condemned  to  eternity's  loss; 
Though  I  came  to  the  heavenly  portals 

Serene  with  the  sign  of  the  cross, 

I  feel  to  the  depths  of  my  being 
That  judgment  like  this  is  unfair; 

With  the  ransomed  I  am  not  agreeing, 
But  blush  to  be  found  with  them  there. 

With  horror  and  piteous  pleading 
I  turn  from  the  God  and  the  Ghost, 

And  call  for  the  Christ's  interceding 
For  them  who  are  needing  it  most, 

38 


THE  BLACK  WOLF'S  KEY 

I  dwelt  in  a  cot  with  my  children  three;  — 
Children  and  cot  were  all  that  were  mine; 

Healthy,  and  happy,  and  heartful  were  we, 
In  the  home  hewed  out  of  the  haunts  of  pine. 

We  had  neighbors  none5  but  a  bad,  bad  one, 
Who  told  of  the  wolf  while  I  delved  away;  — 

Never  a  worse  day's  work  can  be  done 

Than  a  tongue  can  do  with  nothing  to  say. 

Better  a  mouth  had  been  born  dead-dumb 
If  it  call  the  beast  from  the  haunts  of  pine; 

If  ye  tell  of  the  wTolf,  why,  the  wolf  will  come, 
Tho'  never  before  had  been  sound  or  sign. 

That  night  he  came  in  the  dismal  dusk, 

And  howled  on  the  marge  of  the  haunts  of  pine: 

"Come,  give  me  fare,  that  I  whet  my  tusk; 

Give    up    your   children  ;    they're   mine  ;    they're 


I  had  laid  me  down  on  my  pallet  bed; 

Already  asleep  were  my  children  three; 
"Come,  hasten,  I  famish,"  the  black  wolf  said, 

"Now  hasten,  and  open  the  door  for  me." 

Then  I  got  me  up  in  the  dismal  dusk;  — 
Oh,  I  got  me  up  to  the  roof-tree,  there  — 

"Ha!  ha!  thou  wolf,  we  are  safe  from  thy  tusk; 
Be  famished  or  fat;  we  are  not  thy  fare." 

"Ye  cannot  climb  up  the  wall  so  steep; 

Ye  cannot  get  at  my  children  three; 
So  be  ye  famished;  they'll  bide  asleep; 

The  door  is  fast,  and  I've  got  the  key." 

39 


The  black  wolf  grinned  a  horrible  grin — 
A  horrible  grin  of  fangs  and  foam — 

"Oh,  never  you  fear  but  I  can  get  in; 
I  need  no  key  to  open  your  home. 

"But  woe  to  the  wight  who  gives  not  up 
At  beck  of  the  beast  his  children  three; 

To  show  how  easy  it  is  to  sup 

Now  out  of  your  hand  I  call  the  key." 

I  had  taken  the  key  from  off  the  shelf ; — 
Oh!  I  gripped  it  close;  but  a  moment  more, 

And  out  of  my  clutch  it  twisted  itself; 

At  the  beck  of  the  beast  unlocked  the  door. 

"Ho!  wolf,  black  wolf,  take  me  instead; 

To  die  for  love  is  the  death  to  die; 
Ho!  wolf,  black  wolf,  and  ye  must  be  fed, 

I'll  furnish  the  fare  for  you,"  quoth  I. 

"Keep  out,  keep  out  of  my  open  door; 

Come,  eat  ye  of  me,  but  spare  ye  mine." 
Now  hail  to  the  life  of  the  evermore, — 

For  the  black  wolf  fled  to  the  haunts  of  pine. 

O,  chrisom  children,   for  evermore 

Ye  all  shall  live,  wherever  ye  be; 
For  I,  who  stand  at  the  open  door 

Of  death  and  of  hell  have  got  the  key! 


40 


THE  CONTINUING  CITY 

They  laid  me  here  a  century  ago, — 

In  the  grave-ground  of  the  ancient  parish. 

From  the  belfry 

Tolled  the  slow  bell  of  solemn  Trinity. 
They  laid  me  here  and  missed  me  for  awhile — 
The  few  who  loved   me.     Then — not  love  grew 
cold. 

But  Love's  season, 

Having  passed  th'  autumnal  equinox, — 
The  aftermath  of  memory  gathered, — 
Ended  in  the  winter  of  forgetfulness. 

From  my  low  grave  I've  watched  the  city  chang- 
ing, 
In  its  swift  growth  from  lowly  habitations; 

Ever  growing 

Greater  and  grander  and  more  beautiful. 
Till  nowr  I  see  the  sordid  world  encroaching, 
O'ertop  the  spire  of  solemn  Trinity, — 

Life's  lustful  greed, — 
The  anti-Christ  of  tyranny  and  greed, — 
The  anti-Christ  of  lust  for  power  and  gold, 
Dwarf  the  God-likeness  of  this  sacred  spot. 

Now  ye  who  move  are  not  unlike  to  me ; 
Your  body  is  a  spirit's  sepulchre, 

Deeply  hidden, 

Changeless,  but  ever  changed,  its  habitation. 
For  here  is  no  continuing  city; 
But  events  pass  like  a  moving  picture 

Before  the  soul: — 

The  childish  days,  while  the  unconscious  one 
Flits  like  a  bee; — youth  garnering  thoughts, 
Manhood  experience,  old  age  regrets. 
41 


Ye  tell  me  I  am  not  and  cannot  do; — 
That  yours  is  all  the  power  and  the  will; — 

See  the  dead  smile; 

For  all  the  changes  you  yourselves  have  made 
Are   wrought   by   them  who   long  since  have   been 

dead ; — 
New  combinations, — forms  of  art  eternal, — 

Feel  our  dead  hand 
Touching  a  lever  in  the  ghostly  past ; 
Hear    our    mute    voice — signal    to    future    genera- 
tions— 
Calling  and  commanding  them: — Arise! 


IN   HIS   PRINCELY   PLACE 

When  the  royal  One  was  born, 
Child  of  Mary,  mother  maid, 

On  this  white  and  wintry  morn 
In  the  lowly  manger  laid, — 

He  was  in  his  princely  place, 

Lord  and  lover  of  our  race. 

Through  the  life  he  lived  alone, 

Mocked  and  feared,  betrayed,  denied, 

Lifted  on  the  cruel  throne 

Where  for  love  of  man  he  died, — 

He  was  in  his  princely  place, 

Lord  and  lover  of  our  race. 

Through  the  ages  of  the  past 

While  the  mold  was  shaped  and  made 
For  the  perfect  image  cast, 

God  in  man,  tho  long  delayed, — 
He  was  in  his  princely  place, 
Lord  and  lover  of  our  race. 

Through  the  ages  swift  or  slow, 

On  the  further  fairer  side, 
In  the  gloom  or  in  the  glow, 

Whether  crowned  or  crucified, — 
He  shall  keep  his  princely  place, 
Lord  and  lover  of  our  race. 

When  the  phantoms  of  our  doubt 
One  by  one  are  stilled  or  slain, 

All  the  cunning  thieves  cast  out 
From  the  temple  of  the  brain, — 

He  shall  keep  his  princely  place, 

Lord  and  lover  of  our  race. 
43 


When  the  cruel  thoughts  we  think 
Shall  give  room  to  truths  we  know, 

When  on  time's  remotest  brink, 
To  his  greatness  man  shall  grow, 

He  shall  keep  his  princely  place, 

Lord  and  lover  of  our  race. 


44 


CITY  OF  THE  STRANGER'S  GATE 

'Twas  night  when  Christ  and  his  disciples  came 
Unto  the  city  of  the  Stranger's  gate: — 

"Now  lead  thou  us,"  said  Peter;  "By  thy  name 
We  walk;"  but  Jesus  said:  "We  wait." 

They  tarried  by  the  gate,  till  thro  the  gloom 
A  torch-light  sparkled  in  the  distance  dim: 

"Behold  our  guide,"  said  Jesus,  "to  illume 
Our  way.  Arise;  we  follow  him." 

The  torch  drew  near.  Then  the  disciples  knew 
That  he  who  bore  it  was  a  publican; 

And  they  said:  "Oh,  Master,  is  it  true 
Thou  wilt  be  guided  by  so  base  a  man?" 

Then  answered  Christ:  "Oh,  pitiful  and  strange; 

How  long,  how  sad  the  weary  way  must  be 
Till  the  world's  heart  shall  find  its  heavenly  change 

And  know  My  Father's  Soul  that  lives  in  me." 

"I  am  the  word  I  told  ye  long  ago ; 

Hear  once  again  the  message  in  the  night; 
Follow  thou  Me.     And  yet  on  earth  below, 

'Tis  not  the  man  ye  follow,  but  the  light." 


45 


THE  USURPER'S  ASSASSIN 

Yes,  it  was  true;  I  died  and  found  it  true; 
There  was  a  god,  imperial  one  of  all. 
Before  his  throne  I  stood,  by  demons  led, 
And  manacled  with  gyves  of  sophistry, 
And  heard  him  ask  in  awful  thunder  tones, 
Had  I  believed  in  Jesus  upon  earth. 

And  when  I  answered:  Nay,  I  never  did; — 

Not  as  a  god,  but  as  a  man  like  me, — 

A  man  who  lived  and  loved,  suffered  and  died  for 

truth, 

God's  face  grew  grave.     Go  hence,  he  fiercely  said, 
And  tarry  where  departed  spirits  stay, 
Worthy  or  worthless,  still  the  archangel's  trump. 

I  bowed  my  head.    'Tis  futile  to  resist 
Resistless  power.    And  yet,  O,  God,  I  said, 
Thou,    knowing    all    things    know'st    I    loved    the 

true, — 

So  loved  I  Jesus,     Dost  thou  dare  to  damn 
That  sort  of  lover?     If  thou  dost  I  go 
Following  Jesus — crucified  for  truth. 

But  God  said  nothing,  and  around  his  throne 
The  choired  seraphs  chanted  forth  his  praise. 
Heard  I  their  music  as  I  sped  away, 
Dragged  forth  from  Paradise,  whilst  devils  grinned, 
And  leered  and  mocked  and  whispered  in  my  ear: 
Too  late,  too  late,  Earth  was  the  place  of  fate. 

Far  from  the  halls  of  bright  Alcyone  I  dwelt 

A  myriad   ages.     Can   I   tell   to   flesh   of   fleshless 

things, 
Of  spirits  disenthralled?     Nay,  'tis  impossible. 

46 


Afar  I  dwelt,  and  toiled  and  learned  my  task. 
Oh!  I  was  patient,  waiting,  hoping  still, 
And  ever  frugal,  saving  thought  for  use. 

The  cycles  sped.     But  every  day  and  hour 
New  denizens  came  in — th'  innumerable  dead, — 
From   every  star  and   planet  of   the   immeasurable 

void, 

And  from  my  home  on  earth — came  mournful  in, 
All  manacled  with  thoughts.     In  dire  despair 
They  dropped  their  chains.    I  saved  them  every  one. 

And  whilst  the  throng  in  helpless,  hopeless  shape, 

Dallied  with  destiny  and  scowled  at  chance, 

In  the  recesses  of  my  indignant  soul 

I  lit  the  fires  of  reason,  built  a  forge, 

And  after  ages  of  the  weariest  work, 

Fashioned  a  dagger  wrought  from  thoughts  of  men. 

When  it  was  done  I  hid  it  underneath 

The  mantle  of  my  soul,  and  waited  still, 

Waited  and  watched  for  freedom — that  great  right 

Of  free-born  souls  that  not  e'en  death, 

Nor  demons,  fires  of  hell,  nor  God 

Himself  dare  trifle  with  nor  take. 

Then  the  time  came   (for  howsoever  watched 
And  guarded,  bolts  nor  bars,  nor  any  power 
Can  stay  the  righteous  spirit  in  its  flight) 
Forth  through  the  abyss  of  space  I  flew, 
Armed  with  my  dagger  on  and  on  and  on, 
Till  in  the  heart  of  Paradise  I  stood 
Once  more  before  the  throne  of  Deity. 

God  sat  unconscious,  dealing  out  their  doom 
To  countless  new  immortals — maids  and  men. 
47 


To  all  he  asked  that  question,  full  of  fate, 
Had  they  loved  Jesus?  Oh!  the  wails  that  mixed 
With  the  angelic  chorus  would  have  moved 
Th'   insensate    rock.     They  did    far    more; — they 
moved  a  soul. 

That  soul  was  mine.     Oh !  God,  I  cried,  relent ; 
Forego  thy  wrath  and  let  thy  children  live! 
And  when  God  would  not,  all  at  once  leaped  up 
The  dagger  I  had  forged,  and  of  itself 
Sprang  from  my  grasp  and  hurtled   'gainst  God's 

heart, 
And  smote  him  on  his  throne,  and  there  he  died. 

The  wails  and  music  ceased,  and  for  a  time 
A  mighty  silence.     In  the  holy  hush 
(So  vast  I  heard  a  child  who  prayed  for  light 
In  the  far  Earthland)   rose  a  sweet  fond  voice, 
Saying:  My  brother,  welcome,  welcome  here — 
Brother  Redeemer,  thou  canst  love  me  now. 

For  he  who  sat  upon  my  father's  throne 
Was  an  usurper,  crowned  by  rebel  man: 
Satan  his  name, — not  God — for  in  my  heart 
He  reigns,  in  thine,  and  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Who  love  and  trust  and  serve  and  follow  truth, — 
For  faith  in  Truth  was  ever  faith  in  God. 

Then  seraphs  came,  and  angels  bright  and  pure, — 
All  the  innumerable  hosts  of  Heaven — 
Brought  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crowned 
Jesus  the  God-man  to  his  throne  restored. 
So  Power  fulfilled  what  love  of  Truth  began, 
And  universal  mercy  reigned  and  peace. 


IMMORTALITY 

Forget  the  craft  of  creeds  at  strife, 
Nor  fear  what  death  may  give; 

He  surest  holds  immortal  life 
If  what  he  leaves  shall  live. 


49 


PROGRESS 

Swiftly  now  the  shadow  gathers 
Over  creeds  we  held  so  true — 

On  the  faith  that  served  our  fathers 
And  the  hope  that  once  we  knew. 

Though  our  olden  forms  surprising 
With  an  aspect  fierce  and  strange, 

Truth  advances,  ever  rising 
To  a  freer,  nobler  range. 

Timid  dwellers  in  the  valley 
At  the  shadow  shrink  dismayed, 

Or,  like  slavish  Romans,  rally 

For  the  Vandals'  torch  and  blade; 

But  to  braver  souls  and  stronger, 
Further  up  the  mountain  height, 

All  the  shadows  growing  longer 
Only  prove  advancing  light. 


50 


PART  III 

MYSTIC,   METAPHYSICAL  AND   INTEL- 
LECTUAL 


LEFT  WITH  THE  FLOWERS 

The  country  graveyard  was  overgrown, 
Grasses  and  weeds  and  flowers  and  ferns, 

Over  the  crumbling  prayers  in  stone, 
Clambering  over  the  quaint  old  urns, 

Clambering  over  the  mounds  of  clay, 

Flowers  and  vines  were  all  at  play. 

Hark!  And  all  at  once  they  were  still; 

They  heard  a  rattling  over  the  hill. 

The  brown  leaves  fell  and  a  cold  wind  blew; 

The  gates  of  the  graveyard  opened  wide; 
A  little  white  hearse  ('Twas  a  child  had  died) 

A  little  white  hearse  came  rattling  through. 
So  long  it  had  been  since  a  grave  was  made, 

What  a  grave  was  for  the  flowers  forgot; 
The  wild-rose  lifted  her  head  in  the  shade, 

Crept  close  to  the  aster  Forget-me-not, 
And  wondering  all  and  half  afraid, 

They  heard  the  crumbling  prayers  of  breath ; 

Heard  for  the  first  time  talk  of  death. 

Because  it  was  only  a  baby  had  died 
No  one  there  but  its  mother  cried; 
But  she — the  only  one  in  the  crowd — 
She  could  not  pray,  but  she  sobbed  aloud. 
Her  tears  fell  fast  on  the  sweet  dead  face, 
Holding  it  close  in  a  last  embrace. 

The  wild-rose  looked  in  timid  surprise; 
The  daisy  lifted  its  wondering  eyes. 
The  flowers  heard  what  the  preacher  said; 
They  thought  they  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  dead, 
And  death  to  them,  they  could  not  doubt, 
Was  hardly  a  matter  to  grieve  about. 
53 


"Have  you  forgot,"  said  the  golden-rod, 
"All  that  the  preacher  said  about  God?" 
The  aster  sighed : — "  'Tis  a  wonderful  thing. 
Did  no  one  tell  him  about  the  spring?" 

After  a  while  a  stone  was  put 
On  the  little  grave,  and  a  prayer  was  cut — 
A  pitiful,  crumbling  prayer  in  stone, — 
Where  the  baby  was  left  with  the  flowers  alone- 
Left  with  the  flowers  (Oh!  wonderful  thing 
That  even  a  mother  should  fret  or  fear, 
Knowing  the  round  of  God's  great  year,) 
Left  with  them  to  await  the  spring! 


THE    CAVERN    OF     THE    ENCHANTED 
TRUTHS 

In  a  cavern  domed  with  blue, 
Lit  by  light  shafts  piercing  through, 
Columns  hold  th'  entablature 
Of  the  caverned  corridor. 

Far  along  the  trodden  floor, 

Gliding  as  on  waterways, 
Noiseless  down  the  corridor 

Come  the  truths  of  other  days. 
One  by  one  at  Duty's  call 
They  have  left  their  pedestal, 
Peaceful  and  invincible. 

Long  they  waited  for  their  hour, 

For  th'  awak'ning  call  of  Power; 
One  by  one  they  joined  the  plan 
Of  the  destiny  of  man. 

Joyous,  beautiful  are  they 

Marching  on  their  perfect  way. 

Silence  yet  unbroken  lies 
O'er  the  future's  mysteries; 
But  on  either  side  the  path, 

On  the  way  that  all  must  tread, 
In  stark  semblance  of  death, 

Sit  the  truths  that  are  not  dead: 

Mighty  thoughts  that  yet  must  be, 
Waiting  for  the  wakening  wand, — 

For  the  word  to  set  them  free, 
Sometime  in  the  vast  beyond — 

In  the  caverned  corridor 

Waiting  God's  ambassador. 
55 


Placid  shapes  or  forms  of  ire, 
Armed  with  the  arms  of  fire; 
Staring  eyes  that  never  saw, 

Open  lips  that  never  spake; 
Such  as  wait  th'  eternal  law, 
Underneath  the  azure  arch 
Wait  to  join  the  joyous  march, 

When  Power  shall  cry: — Awake! 


MY  SOUL 

With  God's  crown  upon  my  head 
Here  I  reign  in  royal  red. 
None  hath  ever  seen  my  face, 
Entered  in  my  holy  place; 
Yet  my  courtiers  bring  me  here 
Tidings  from  my  far  frontier, — 
Ear  that  hears  and  eye  that  sees — 
Tribute  of  my  satrapies. 

Though  I  speak  in  sibyl  speech, 
Simple  souls  my  marvels  teach. 
Some  day  in  the  future  hid, 
Of  these  tawdry  trappings  rid, 
I  shall  leave  this  paltry  state, 
I  shall  pass  my  palace  gate, 
I  shall  seek  a  brave  renown, — 
Take  the  sword,  but  keep  the  crown. 

With  the  arms  my  faith  has  skilled, 
With  the  ranks  my  ardor  thrilled: — 
Barren  wastes  I  decked  with  corn, 
Hearts  made  glad  I  found  forlorn, 
Doles  that  'minished  my  scant  hoard, 
Hopes  astray  to  truth  restored, 
Lowly  worms  I  would  not  tread, 
Words  of  passion  left  unsaid; 

These  invincible  shall  wait 
Marshalled  at  my  palace  gate. 
Wondrous  regions  unexplored 
Yet  shall  hail  me  as  their  lord. 
I  shall  seek  a  mightier  marge, 
I  shall  see  my  realm  enlarge, 
I  shall  win  a  brave  renown, — 
Take  the  sword,  but  keep  the  crown. 
57 


OUT  OF  THE  GREAT  TRIBULATION 

The   ages   bred   the   monster  that   the   godly   man 

might  breathe; 
A  union  of  strange  elements  discordant  filled  the 

air; 

For  the  fruitage  of  the  vineyards  all  the  red  vol- 
canoes seethe, 

And  the  foul  things  and  the  foolish  for  the  good 
and  wise  prepare. 

Fear  not,  the  hosts  of  happiness  have  wrought  their 

best  for  men; 
The  pestilence  and  famine  and  the  cobra's  deadly 

tooth 
Are    but  the    forge's    sparkles    that    wrought    the 

plough  and  pen — 

The  chipping  of  the  marble  for  the  lovely  form 
of  Truth. 

From  the  slime  of  black  morasses  are  the  whitest 

lilies  grown; 
By  the  manger  in  Judea  was  the  Lord  of  Loving 

born  ; 
And  the  jewel  sparkling  clearest  on  the  brow  upon 

the  throne 

Was  the  drop  of  blood  that  trickled  from  the 
sharp  and  savage  thorn. 

Fear  not,  O  weary  mortal,  nor  let  your  heart  dis- 
may 
When  the  evil  is  exalted,  and  the  right  is  thrust 

aside 
For  the  conquest  and   the  victor  take  a  grander, 

greater  way, 

And  the  throne  is  on  the  scaffold  when  the  king 
is  crucified. 

58 


THE  SEAL 

By  the  mighty  hand  of  Power, 
On  the  scroll  of  the  molten  rocks, 

With   the  awful   earthquake's  stylus, 
In  the  script  of  the  Equinox, 

God  wrote  his  wonderful  message, 
To  serve  while  time  should  last, 

To  tell  to  the  future  ages 
Of  them  that  made  the  past. 

And  when  the  message  was  written 
God  took  the  seal  of  his  plan, 

And  stamped  on  the  wax  of  nature 
His  likeness — the  image  of  man. 

Would 'st  know  the  wondrous  meaning, 
O,  Seal,  of  the  power  impressed? 

Would 'st  thou  read  the  ancient  language 
Of  the  infinite  palimpsest? 

Beware,  O,  curious  mortal! 

(It  was  God  himself  who  spoke) 
How  canst  thou  read  my  message 

Till  the  seal  I  have  set  be  broke?' 


59 


THE  ARGONAUT 

Forth  from  thy  wharves,  city  of  greed  and  rancor, 

Of  pride  and  wrath, 
I  set  the  sail,  and  slip  the  rusted  anchor 

For  the  pathless  path. 

I  know  the  bearings  of  the  land  Forever 

Beyond  our  sleep; 
There  is  a  harbor  for  the  barque  Endeavor — 

Across  the  deep. 

There,  in  the  haven  that  my  soul  awaited, 

I'll  disembark, 

With    the    rich    cargo    that     these   shores     have 
freighted — 

To  sail  the  dark. 


60 


ASTEROID 

Round  and  round  upon  the  track 
Of  the  circling  Zodiac 
Coursed  the  runners, — planets  seven 
In  the  Olympiad  of  Heaven. 

There  the  mighty-minded  Greek, 
Feeble-visioned  vainly  seek 
For  the  planet  of  the  void, — 
For  the  missing  asteroid. 

In  the  old  Athenian  school, 
By  the  epicycle's  rule, — 
All  in  vain  they  sought,  for  yet 
'Gainst  the  star  no  lens  was  set. 

Boys,  dear  boys,  I  love  you  so; 
Yet  there's  love  you  cannot  know. 
Years  ago,  but  not  to  stay, 
Came  a  sister,  for  a  day. 

As  the  mighty-minded   Greek 
For  my  missing  star  I  seek ; 
And  I  call  the  darkness  through: — 
Darling!  darling!  where  are  you? 

While  I  seek  through  all  the  void 
For  my  missing  asteroid, 
And  my  longing  eyes  in  vain 
For  a  glimpse  of  glory  strain ; 

While  the  hideous  blank  of  death 
Only  mocking  answereth, 
And  I  turn  in  dumb  despair 
That  my  darling  is  not  there; 
61 


I  remember — Yet,  Oh!  yet, 
Sometime  shall  the  lens  be  set. 
Oh!  my  baby,  Oh!  my  star! 
Darling!  darling!  There  you  are! 


62 


THE  NATURAL  BODY 

Root  from  which  the  flow'r  has  blown ; 
Nest  from  which  the  bird  has  flown; 
Prison  pen  whose  walls  are  scaled ; 
Port  from  which  the  soul  has  sailed. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  GOD 

"Maker  and  keeper  of  life,"  cried  the  rose  to  the 

sun, 

Let  it  always  be  day; 
Let  me  dwell  in  thy  light;  send  the  cloud  and  the 

rain, 
And  the  darkness  away." 

"Give  me  wings  that  I  rise  from  this  close-clinging 
mold 

That  thy  glory  impedes; 
That  I  live  in  thy  light,  lift  me  up  to  thy  height, 

And  away  from  the  weeds." 

"Nightfall  and   rainfall   are  mine," — said  the  sun 

to  the  rose, 

"And  the  close  clinging  mold. 
In   the  dark  and   the  damp   there  my  angels  en- 
camp,— 
There  thy  wings  shall  unfold." 

"Rebel,  incredulous  rose  in  the  garden  of  God, 

Knowing  not  how  to  pray, 

With  disdain  for  the  light  and  the  height  in  the 
rain, 

And  the  dark,  and  the  day." 


ALCYONE 

On  the  banner  of  the  sky 
Stars  of  light  unnumbered  lie. 
Unto  one — O!  king  of  these — 
Monarch  of  the  Pleiades, 
Thought  a  moment  rests  on  thee — 
Hail.     O,  king  Alcyone. 

While  our  planet  sweeps  around — 
In  Orion's  bondage  bound, 
Now  in  chilly  dark  arrayed — 
Death  the  winter,  sin  the  shade; 
Turned  away  from  thy  delight 
'Tis  our  winter;  'tis  our  night. 

Yet  thy  summer  glows  afar 

On  some  better  favored  star. 

As  the  Arab  poet  saw 

Love  shine  thro  the  mists  of  law, 

So  again  a  poet  sees 

Influence  of  the  Pleiades. 

Sees  a  star  with  sure  redress 

For  our  earthly  heartlessness ; 

In  whose  realm  the  faith  is  sure — 

All  the  longings  great  and  pure — 

Somewhere,  somewhere, — this  I  know,- 

Love,  thy  summer  glories  glow. 

In  the  rays  of  reason  we 
Live,  O,  Love,  in  hope  of  thee. 
Turn,  O,  wondrous  cycle,  turn; 
Let  thy  glory  o'er  us  burn; 
We  are  weary,  thou  slow-paced; 
To  our  summer  haste,  O!  haste. 

65 


SLEEP 

From  yard  to  yard  the  sails  are  spread; 

The  pilot  holds  the  willing  wheel ; 
Between  the  far  blue  overhead 

And  blue  below  now  slips  the  keel. 

Masthead  ahoy!  A  sail!  a  sail! 

Swift  speeding  comes  a  flying  bow; — 
Close,  closer,  near,  now  on  the  rail, 

A  stalwart  ghost  commands  us  now. 

His  bosen's  whistle  pipes  a  blast; 

Starboard  and  port,  and  fore  and  aft; 
From  yard  and  deck,  from  bow  and  mast, 

Captain  and  crew  give  up  the  craft. 

Then  on  and  on  we  reckless  go, 
Heedless  of  shoal  or  looming  lee; — 

'Twixt  blue  above  and  blue  below 
The  guiding  ghost  steers  o'er  the  sea. 


66 


EVOLUTION 

O,  Brain  disdain  your  reasons  old! 

O,  Heart,  be  strong  and  free! 
Whoever  told  the  cold  brown  mold 

Of  blossoms  yet  to  be? 

O,  Heart  and  Brain,  be  undismayed! 

Forego  your  long  dispute; 
The  power  that  made  the  blossoms  fade 

Can  bring  the  ripening  fruit. 


THE  BABES  OF  THEMIS 

In  the  oriel  window  on  the  street 

A  fair  young  mother  holds  her  baby  sweet, 

Her  dear  first-born   arrayed   in   lawn   and   lace,- 

A  smiling  future  and  a  smiling  face. 

Beneath  the  window,  on  the  torrid  street, 
A  wretched  woman  wanders  in  the  heat, 
Holding  a  wan  white  baby,  her  disgrace — 
A  scowling  future  and  a  scowling  face. 

Unseen  between  them  is  a  phantom  fair, 
Whose  robe  is  love,  whose  home  is  everywhere. 
Scales  in  her  hand  she  sits  with  blinded  eyes, 
And  smiles  and  scowls  and  squanders — or  denies. 

(),  childless  goddess,  shall  it  ever  be 
The  human  mother-heart  unknown  to  thee? 
Hark!  From  the  cloud  I  hear  a  voice  divine: — 
"Mortal,  be  silent,  both  the  babes  are  mine." 


68 


POLARIS 

Truth  is  a  circle;  the  soul  an  arc, 
Holding  the  helm  of  this  mortal  barque, 
Sailing  over  the  fathomless  brine 
Of  the  sea  of  the  world  for  a  port  divine. 

The  foolish  pilot  may  drop  the  lead 
In  the  unfathomed  sea,  but  overhead 
Is  the  mighty  North  that  I  know  is  mine, 
To  guide  me  over  the  trackless  brine. 

The  clouds  of  night  are  dark  and  wet. 
Strap  the  helm!    Let  the  sails  be  set. 
Clouds  may  curtain  the  northern  star; 
But  safe  in  the  ship  I  sail  afar. 

The  night  is  dark;  but  Polaris'  fire 
Unseen  discloses  my  soul's  desire. 
And  fearing  nothing,  I  sail  afar — 
In  the  midst  of  the  ship  I  bear  the  star. 


PART  IV 
HUMOROUS 


SPRINKLED  RHYMES 

A  man  I  knew,  when  the  weather  was  hot, 

Held  over  his  head  a  wateringpot, 

And  sprinkled  himself  and  growled  for  an  hour, 

And  fancied  it  all  was  a  thunder  shower, 

Till,  when  he  was  tired,  he  said:  "Now  there! 

The  trouble  I've  taken  will  cool  the  air." 

So  many  a  rhymster  oft  mistakes 

For  Olympus's  thunder  the  noise  he  makes; 

With  watery  words  he'll  take  such  pains 

That  some  are  persuaded  it  really  rains. 

What  a  pity  it  is!  for  one  despairs 

That  the  trouble  he  takes  will  cool  his  airs. 


73 


A  SEPTEMBER  IDYL 

They  sat  close  as  could  be 

'Neath  the  shade  of  a  tree — 
An  apple,  with  fruit  heavy  laden, — 

A  young  man,  city  bred, 

With  some  "cults"  in  his  head, 
And  a  simple  and  practical  maiden. 

With  a  look  of  despair 

The  youth  rumpled  his  hair, 
And  quoth — after  quoting  some  Byron — 

"Hear  the  winds  sigh  and  moan 

As  the  tree  boughs  are  blown, 
Like  lost  spirits  whom  tortures  environ." 

But  the  girl  had  a  charm 

(For  she  lived  on  a  farm) 
That  with  such  silly  sentiment  grapples: — 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  true, 

And  you'd  sigh  and  moan  too 
If  you  were  as  full  of  green  apples." 


74 


PUZZLED. 

Oh!  what  shall  I  do?  I'm  lost  and  lone, 
The  fancies  of  childhood  all  outgrown; 
Life  is  a  riddle  and  living  a  bore; 
I  do  not  believe  in  things  any  more. 

I've  guessed  and  guessed  till   I'm  tired  out 
Till  I'm  tired  of  lies,  and  tired  of  doubt; 
Tired  of  things  that  I  can't  explain, 
And  tired  of  things  absurdly  plain. 

I  will  not  guess  nor  think  any  more; 
I  will  look  behind  instead  of  before; 
I'll  be  as  stupid  as  I  can  be, 
And  somebody  else  shall  guess  for  me. 


75 


CHARACTER 

High  temper,  guided  by  high  wit, 
Can  load  and  aim  and  fire  and  hit. 

But  anger  really  nothing  foils, 

The  shoulder's  hurt,  the  piece  recoils. 

Or  the  charge  fizzles, — nothing's  done 
But  miss  the  mark  or  burst  the  gun. 


AMBITION 

At   ten   years   old,   or   somewhat   later, 
Tom  Smith  resolved  to  be  dictator; 
But  at  fifteen  was  quite  content 
With  being  one  day  president. 

At  twenty  all  his  mind  was  set 

On  Congress  or  the  cabinet. 

At  thirty — having  grown  much  wiser — 

He  sought  the  place  of  supervisor. 

He  had  (and  paid  for)  an  ovation, 

But  failed  to  get  the  nomination. 

'Twas  then,  with  politics  disgusted, 
With  temper  riled  and  wallet  busted, 
He  sought  the  post  of  an  inspector 
Of  Customs  from  the  Port  Collector. 

He's  sixty  now,  and  one  may  wager 
That  he  will  die  a  simple  gager. 


77 


SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

When  first  to  keeping  house  we  went, 

My  wife  and  I  agreed 
My  part  should  be  providing  cash, 

And  hers  providing  feed. 

I  like  good  living.     Who  does  not? 

My  wife  has  sense  enough; 
But  somehow,  almost  every  time, 

We  found  the  turkey  tough. 

I   never  sneered,  much  less  reproached, 

But  always  blamed  the  knife, 
Or  called  the  marketman  a  cheat; — 

That's  how  to  treat  a  wife. 

One  day,  not  feeling  very  well, 

She  asked, — would  I  prefer 
To  have  for  dinner  corn-beef  hash, 

Or  buy  a  fowl  for  her. 

Said  I, — "My  dear,  you  know  so  much, — 

So  ignorant  am  I, — 
Please  tell  me  so  I'll  understand, 

What  sort  of  fowl  to  buy." 

Then  Helen  (That's  her  pretty  name) 

Explained  in  some  detail 
The  way  to  tell  a  tender  bird — 

A  way  that  couldn't  fail. 

"You   feel   his   breast,"   she   said,    "and    then 
You  twist  his  wing  just  once — " 

So  she  went  on  to  tell  about 
A  lot  of  other  stunts. 

78 


I  did  not  sneer, — some  husbands  do; — 
I  have  known  those  who  swore, — 

Nor  did  I  ask  her  why  her  way 
Had  failed  so  oft  before. 


The  marketman  smiled  sweetly.     "Sure, 

I've  got  the  bird  you  need. 
Just  feel  his  breast  and  twist  his  wing; — 

Fine  turkey,  sir,  indeed." 

Said  I, — "Not  so,  friend  marketman. 

Take  one  good  look  at  me. 
Feel  if  you  like  my  dogged  jaw, 

My  Roman  nose  you  see." 

A  wild  expression  crossed  his  face; 

I  saw  the  sweet  smile  cease. 
It  seemed  at  first  he'd  twist  my  nose, 

Or  call  for  the  police. 

"Those  signs,"  I  quickly  added,  "mean 
The  man  who  keeps  his  word. 

I  want  a  tender  turkey,  so 
I'll  let  you  choose  the  bird." 

"If  all  goes  right,  I'll  buy  of  you, 

Nor  try  the  other  men; 
But  if  your  turkey  turns  out  tough, 

I'll  never  come  again." 

The  smile  went  back.    So  did  that  bird, 

At  once  upon  his  hook. 
From  somewhere  else  that  marketman 

A  tender  turkey  took. 


79 


Since  then — 'Twas  many  years  ago — 
The  task's  been  mine  to  buy; 

The  turkeys  never  have  been  tough — 
And  Helen  wonders  why! 


80 


BURGLAR  ALARMS 

Most  of  the  dwellers  on  our  street 

(Including  me,  the  bard) 
Last  summer  stayed  through  all  the  heat 

Because  the  times  were  hard. 

The  Hotchkisses  (who  lived  next  door) 
Had  closed  their  house  and  left 

Burglar  alarms  on  every  floor 

To  guard  their  goods  from  theft. 

'Twas  late  one  pleasant  sultry  night, 
When  with  a  grewsome  clang, 

That  gave  us — one  and  all — a  fright, 
All  those  alarm  bells  rang! 

Then  we  upon  the  porch  ran  down, 

And  those  within  ran  out; 
'Twas  quite  unusual  in  our  town, 

But  burglars; — none  could  doubt. 

While  we  all  gazed  at  Hotchkiss's  door 
Until  the  clang  should  cease, 

Round  the  adjacent  corner  tore 
Two  of  our  brave  police. 

We  all  were  brave  enough,  no  doubt 

To  face  the  awful  din, 
And  yet  somehow  we  stopped  without 

And  let  the  cops  go  in. 

Five  minutes — ten— on  went  the  sound  , 

The  police  reappeared; 
No  trace  of  burglars  had  they  found, 

And  they  were  plainly  "queered." 
81 


With  faces  ghastly  white,  their  looks 
Made  plain  a  "state  of  mind;" 

In  short,  they  laid  the  noise  to  "spooks," 
And  left  their  wits  behind. 

"Spooks  nothing!"  spoke  a  piping  voice, 
"Ye' re  way  off  from  yer  base;" 

'Twas  Pat,  our  little  grocery  boy, 
Pat,  of  the  smiling  face. 

"It  aint  no  burglars  neither,  man; 

That  burglar  game's  a  skin; 
'Twas  only  Jimmy  Madigan; — 

He  done  it  wid  a  pin." 

Then  Patsey  ambled  down  the  way, 

Towards  the  area  door, 
And  showed  what  made  the  button  stay, 

And  caused  the  grewsome  roar. 

The  neighbors  all  praised  little  Pat, — 

Who  answered  with  a  grin; 
The  police  snarled :    "Get  out  o'  that, 

Or  we  will  run  yez  in." 


We  read — in  lots  of  magazines — 

Of  "science"  just  begun; 
Of  wondrous  "psychic"  ways  and  means, 

Of  marvels  told  and  done. 

I  am  not  one  to  sneer  or  scoff 

At  frauds  I  can't  expose; 
I  wait, — when  these  alarms  go  off — 

Till  some  one  comes  who  knows. 

82 


Be  wise, — you  "psychologic"  sharp, 
And  take  this  precept  in: — 

The  "spook's"  some  Jimmy  Madigan, 
Who  "done  it"  with  a  pin! 


THE  SAME  OLD  CHOICE 

Now  thanks  be  praised,  at  last  we  know 
Where  both  the  parties  stand, 

As  with  their  ballots  forth  they  go 
To  save  their  native  land. 

For  morals  one  goes  forth  to  slay, 

And  eke  for  labor  too, 
To  make  a  Yankee  Sabbath  day 

Where  all  the  laws  are  blue. 

For  labor  now  the  others  go, 

And  eke  for  morals'  sake, 
To  let  the  liquor  freely  flow 

And  lawless  laws  to  make. 

The  same  old  grind  comes  round  again ; 

The  same  old  parties  come  ; 
The  same  old  choice  for  honest  men 

'Twixt  tweedledee  and  dum. 


COOPERATION 

With  transportation  rates  so  great, 
And  produce  price  so  small, 

The  farmer  found — unhappy  fate — 
He  did  not  thrive  at  all. 

"  'Tis  better  you  should  go  away," 

He  told  his  hired  man; 
"I  can  no  longer  wages  pay; 

I'll  shift  as  best  I  can." 

Then  said  the  man  with  beaming  face: 

"Do  nothing  half  so  rash; 
I'll  take  a  mortgage  on  your  place, 

And  never  ask  for  cash." 

'Twas  so  agreed;  the  years  rolled  round; 

The  farmer  prosperous  grew, 
Till  at  the  end  of  five  he  found 

His  man  had  prospered  too. 

For  then  it  was,  his  wage  to  pay, 

The  man  he  hired  chose 
To  let  the  farmer  go  away, 

The  mortgage  to  foreclose. 

"Why  be,"  the  farmer  said,  "so  rash? 

I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do— 
A  mortgage  take — not  asking  cash — 

And  stay  and  work  for  you." 

Now  each  five  years  they  alternate. 

Whoe'er  the  farm  did  own, 
Farmer  and  man  cooperate, 

And  both  have  prosperous  grown. 
85 


HOW  MAN  CAME  TO  BE  LORD  OF 
CREATION 

Adam  and  Eve  their  first  day  spent 

In  comfort  and  in  great  content. 

Until  at  last  the  sun  sank  low, 

When  Adam  cried, — "I  told  you  so; 

I  said  the  sun  would  not  stick  fast — 

That  times  were  quite  too  good  to  last." 

The  sun  went  down.    Poor  little  Eve 

Began  at  once  to  weep  and  grieve. 

"Shut  up,"  bawled  Adam,  "Come,  let's  run ; 

We  must  make  haste  and  catch  the  sun." 

Said  Eve  unto  her  stouter  mate, — 

"I  think  perhaps  we'd  better  wait; 

You  know  experience  we  lack; 

No  doubt  the  sun  will  soon  come  back." 

But  Adam  gave  his  head  a  toss, 

And  scowled:     "Remember  I  am  boss." 

So  off  they  set,  as  Adam  guessed 

(While  poor  Eve  trusted  him)  due  west. 

On  on  they  ran,  the  man  and  mate, 

Along  a  line  he  thought  was  straight. 

But  as  folks  will  who  compass  lack, 
They  turned  about  upon  their  track. 
Till,  when  poor  Eve  was  almost  dead, 
They  saw  a  glimmer  far  ahead; 
And  when  their  strength  had  almost  ceased, 
Saw  the  sun  rising — in  the  east. 
"What  did  I  tell  you?"  Adam  cried; 
1  'Tis  well  on  me  that  you  relied  ; 
'Tis  well  indeed  all  night  we've  run  ; 
Now  see  at  last  we've  caught  the  sun." 

86 


PART  V 
JUVENILE 


NAN'S  WHITE  WORLD 

At  our  window  on  the  hill, 
Sometimes  talking,  sometimes  still, 
Sat  my  little  girl  and  I 
Looking  at  the  wintry  sky. 
While  the  breath  of  frosty  air 
Swung  the  maples  brown  and  bare, 
And  across  the  valley  rolled 
All  the  moonbeams'  wealth  of  gold, 
Touching  with  a  wondrous  glow 
Hill  and  valley  robed  in  snow. 

Winters  two  and  summers  three, 
Wise  a  baby  could  not  be, 
So  she  asked  me  there  that  night: — 
What  makes  all  the  world  so  white? 
Of  the  moonlight  and  the  cold, 
And  the  snowy  world  I  told. 
Now  the  world  seems  white  to  you, 
Little  Nan  with  heart  so  true, 
And  the  rays  of  wonder  throw 
Only  glory  on  the  snow. 

Yet  beyond  the  mountains  tall 
Long  black  shadows  eastward  fall. 
When  my  baby  lies  asleep 
O'er  the  earth  those  shadows  creep. 
Though  your  father's  arms  divide 
Warmth  within  from  cold  outside, 
Soon  enough  the  gold  is  lost 
In  the  shadow  and  the  frost, 
For  your  baby  footsteps  go 
Soon  enough  across  the  snow. 


Long  we  cannot  linger  still 
At  our  window  on  the  hill. 
By  what  trouble,  at  what  cost 
Shall  your  own  white  world  be  lost? 
Trouble  comes — oh!  come  it  will — 
In  some  valley  deep  and  chill; 
By  what  mountain,  in  what  spot 
It  shall  meet  you  know  I  not; 
By  what  shadow  overcast 
Shall  the  glory  go  at  last? 

When  the  shadows  eastward  fall, 
"Father!  Father!"  you  may  call. 
When  the  bitter  tears  shall  rain, 
You  may  call,  and  call  in  vain. 
In  your  trouble  if  I  hear, 
I  will  come  and  help  you,  dear. 
Though  in  vain  you  call  to  me, 
Where  your  straying  feet  may  be, 
There  is  One  who  watches  still, 
At  His  window,  on  His  hill. 


90 


CLEMATIS 

Over  the  cottage  porch,  and  around 

The  lattice  windows  a-near  the  ground, 

Drooping  low,  like  a  bridal  veil, 

Clematis  burgeoned  with  blossoms  pale. 

When  the  day  was  warm  and  the  air  was  still, 

It  gleamed  like  a  beacon  upon  the  hill. 

Of  its  pallid  blossoms  the  wind  made  use 

To  flaunt  and  flutter  its  flag  of  truce, 

And  the  sentinel  flower's  perfume  rare 

Challenged  the  darkness: — "Who  comes  there?" 

This  year  with  Clematis  foolish  May, 

Because  she  was  jealous,  would  not  play. 

Winter  perhaps  had  been  too  severe, 

Or  April  spoiled  this  child  of  the  year; 

For  all  of  a  sudden  May  grew  cold; 

She  whispered  low  to  the  dun-brown  mold; 

She  called  to  the  cloud: — "Refrain!     Refrain! 

"Nor  kiss  the  vine  with  your  gladdening  rain;" 

So  the  children  of  Nature  danced  away, 

Resolved  with  Clematis  not  to  play. 

Clematis,  grieved  by  the  mocking  tune, 
Buried  her  face  in  the  lap  of  June. 
But  after  the  summer  had  passed  away 
September,  sister  to  foolish  May, 
To  little,  troubled  Clematis  came; 
She  said  to  the  children: — Oh!  for  shame! 
She  plead  with  the  sun;   the  dew-drops  told; 
She  whispered  low  to  the  dun-brown  mold; 
She  called  to  the  cloud: — "Again,  again, 
Come  kiss  the  vine  with  your  lips  of  rain." 


Then  all  through  October  brave  and  bright, 
Clematis  burgeoned  with  tufts  of  white. 
The  banners  of  truce  came  flaunting  then; 
The  beacon  gleamed  on  the  hill  again, 
And  the  sentinel  flower's  perfume  rare 
Challenged  the  darkness: — "Who  comes  there?" 
But  jealous  now  was  the  dun-brown  mold; 
The  lips  of  rain  of  the  cloud  were  cold ; 
Cold  was  the  wind  and  cold  was  the  sun; 
Playtime  was  over;    the  wrong  was  done. 

I  wonder  when  out  of  her  window,  May 
Shall  see  the  trouble  she  made  in  play, 
If  tears — vain  tears — of  regret  shall  flow 
Because  of  the  doing  of  long  ago. 
Then  pity  poor  May,  and  pity  us  all 
Who  mourn  for  mischief  beyond  recall. 
September  can  never  for  May  be  true, 
Nor  age  the  doing  of  youth  undo. 


BUMBLE  WORDS 

Once  on  a  time,  as  I  understand, 
There  lived  a  race — a  peculiar  band, — 
The  little  people  of  Funnyland. 

They  were  indeed  a  singular  folk, 
For  every  time  that  anyone  spoke, 
A  word  amiss — if  only  in  joke, 

Out  of  their  mouths,  as  all  agree, 

(Don't  you  wish  you'd  been  there  to  see?) 

There  flew  a  terrible  bumble-bee. 

Whenever  was  said  a  saucy  word, 
Whenever  a  grumbling  sound  was  heard, 
This  very  wonderful  thing  occurred; 

And  the  bumble-bee  would  fly  away, 
With  nothing  to  do  the  livelong  day 
But  sting  the  children  and  spoil  their  play. 

And  Oh!  whenever  the  children  lied, 

Of  a  sudden  their  mouths  would  open  wide, — 

A  terrible  buzzing  be  heard  inside, — 

And  out  the  bumble-bees  would  come, 
A  swarm  at  a  time,  with  a  horrible  hum, 
Stinging  the  little  people  dumb. 

They  not  only  stung  the  lass  or  lad, 
Whichever  it  was  had  been  so  bad, 
But  all  the  others;  'twas  very  sad. 


93 


Now  what  should  Funnyland  children  do, 
Stung  by  bumble-words  black  and  blue? 
Stop  saying  the  words,  I  think,  don't  you? 

So  please  remember  that  thoughts  are  things, 
And  bumble-words  have  terrible  stings, 
When  they  fly  away  with  words  for  wings. 


94 


THE  LAND  OF  UPSIDE  DOWN 

A  little  girl  lived  in  Funnytown, 

In  the  curious  country  of  Upsidedown. 

She  had  hair  on  her  feet  and  toes  on  her  head, 

And  never  in  all  her  life  went  to  bed; 

For  (would  you  believe  such  a  thing  could  occur?) 

The  bed  had  a  habit  of  coming  to  her. 

She  had  plenty  to  eat,  but  grew  quite  stout 

Because  of  dainties  she  went  without. 

And  what  do  you  think  those  dainties  were? — 

And  what  of  a  girl  who  would  prefer 

To  let  a  saucer  of  ice  cream  spoil 

While  she  begged  for  more  of  the  castor-oil? 

There  were  lots  of  other  curious  things: 
The  birds  had  hoofs  and  the  horses  wings; 
There  were  Maltese  cows  and  Alderney  cats, 
And  folks  wore  rubbers  in  place  of  hats; 
The  water  was  dry  and  the  fire  was  wet, — 
The  queerest  country  that  ever  was  yet. 


95 


LITTLE  COLUMBUS 

With  mamma's  loving  kisses  blest 
The  little  ship  went  sailing  west — 
From  Drowsy-port  across  the  deep 
Of  night's  mysterious  ocean-sleep, 
Saluted  from  the  loving  fort 
Of  mamma's  lips  in  Drowsy-port: — 
Good  night!  Good  night! 

So  sailed  the  little  craft  away 
To  the  new  continent  of  day, 
With  mamma  (blessings  be  for  her) 
To  speed  the  morn's  discoverer, 
Saluted   from   the   loving   fort 
Of  those  dear  lips  in  Drowsy-port :- 
Good  night!  Good  night! 


"TO  MAKE  YOU  WISE" 

I  saw  some  children  the  other  day 
Out  in  the  garden  hard  at  play; 
And  by  the  window  curtains  hid, 
I  watched  what  the  little  children  did. 

They  sat  in  a  row  on  the  summer  grass, 
And  one,  the  oldest,  a  pretty  lass, 
Said,  "Open  your  mouth  and  shut  your  eyes, 
I'll  give  you  something  to  make  you  wise." 

So, — mouth  wide  open  and  eyes  tight  shut, 
Into  each  little  mouth  was  something  put; — 
Something  that  everyone  liked  quite  well — 
Some  candy,  I  guess,  or  a  caramel; 

For  each  little  one  when  it  had  its  bite, 
Jumped  up  laughing  in  great  delight. 
If  it  hadn't  been  good  they'd  been  wry-faced; 
And  it  doesn't  require  good  sight  to  taste. 

What  a  pity  it  is  as  we  older  grow 
That  we  can't  go  on  trusting  the  others  so; 
That  we  older  ones,  if  we  would  be  wise, 
"Must  shut  our  mouth  and  open  our  eyes." 


97 


THE  CRITICS 

Would  you  be  a  poet? — 
Write  as  heart  dictates; — 

Never  stop  to  reason; — 
He  will  fail  who  waits. 

When  your  verse  is  finished 
Read  it  to  your  chum; 

He  will  say  most  likely; — 
"Bully  boy,  by  gum!" 

Show  it  to  your  mother, 
She  will  weep  and  praise ; — 

"Son,  I  ne'er  expected 
Rapture  like  to-day's." 

Show  it  to  your  sister. — 
Will  she  praise  you?     No; 

She'll  be  madly  jealous 
For  her  scribbling  beau. 

Let  your  teacher  see  it, 
He  will  growl; — "I  guess 

Boys  with  an  afflatus 
Seldom  reach  success." 

Give  it  to  your  father 
(If  you've  got  the  gall)  ; 

He  will  say; — "You're  not  so 
Stupid  after  all." 

Give  it — No,  I'm  hasty, — 

Try  to  sell,  I  mean; 
Send  it,  neatly  copied, 

To  some  magazine. 

98 


Editors  have  wisdom — 
That's  well  understood  ;- 

If  they  pay  cash  for  it 
Then  it's  really  good. 


RECOGNITION 

Did  they  know  him  ?    Not  at  first- 
Not  at  first  and  not  for  long, 

Tho  the  early  strain  that  burst 
Was  his  best  and  bravest  song. 

Now  you  know  him,  go  and  find- 
Go  and  find  and  tell  him  so; — 

Tell  him  one  at  least  was  blind 
To  have  seen  and  not  to  know. 


100 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


APR24  1998«fC'D 


100m-8,'65  (F6282s8)2373 


PS2724.R6I5 


3  2106  00208  0270 


